One of the last material gifts my father-in-law (your great-grandfather) gave to me was an Amazon Kindle. (His legacy of spiritual gifts are too numerous to mention here, but will be documented at a later date). Don was a generous man in the truest sense of the word.  The last few months he was alive, he gave gifts he knew we would enjoy long after he was gone. He gave them thoughtfully and with great joy in his heart. I had been reluctant to buy a Kindle for myself, but coveted my husband’s Aunt Joanna’s-she uses hers extensively while traveling for business and pleasure. I was fascinated with the ability to “sample” chapters of books before you bought them, anywhere, at any time of the day or night. For a bibliophile like myself, it is Nirvana!

I have spent hundreds of hours in bookstores over the years, my browsing and subsequent buying habits evident the moment one walks into my home, there are bookshelves in every room. Our local independent bookseller, Doug, who works at Books, Inc in Mountain View knows when I am having a bad day at the office. I’ll show up on my lunch hour and browse for awhile. I never fail to find at least one book I have to have. Doug and I have a nice chat and I return to work a new woman. Some people hit the bars, I hit the bookstore with no worries about a DUI on the way back to work. Sweet!

One of the services offered through Amazon is to suggest books you might enjoy downloading, which I must say is a great marketing tool. Recently, Life Is a Verb by Patti Digh (pronounced Dye) mysteriously appeared on my Kindle. The subtitle: 37 Days to Wake Up, be Mindful and Live Intentionally stopped me in my tracks, that is if I had been in a bookstore rather than perusing my Kindle offerings wirelessly. I thought about it though, the idea of living intentionally, then looked at my desk diary. Being an engineer, I document everything! I had noted the usual appointments and meetings in my diary, but also items like: Don enters Hospice care (April 24), Don’s defibrillator disconnected at his request (April 28), Don shares an Astronomy Today  article with Lucas (April 30), Don and Lucas, Root Beer Floats (May 07).

Ms. Digh wrote this book after her step-dad died, 37 days after he was diagnosed with lung cancer. She asked herself what she would do differently if she knew she had 37 days left to live. In my father-in-law’s case, he chose to live with grace and a generous heart. He didn’t know exactly how many days he had left, but when I look back at my desk diary, his intention was clear. He lived his last days with love in his heart, gratitude, humility and wry humor. He never complained and always, always asked us how our day was going, no matter how badly he was feeling. He apologized when he was too weak to speak or needed more ice chips or medicine. He was a “good and sublime” man as our parish priest, Fr. Larry, stated at Don’s funeral Mass.

I  haven’t downloaded Life is a Verb, yet, but I have started making my list. I like to write in the margins, so this may be a book I actually have to buy at Books, Inc. It’s been awhile since Doug and I have had a good chat…

 My husband’s reply:

 Thanks for writing this, my Dear. It’s very touching and I’m glad the Kindle has more meaning for you than just a new way of reading books. According to my count, my dad had 46 days from the day he announced to us that he was beginning hospice care so I’m glad we were “awake” through those days and mindful of what was happening to him and to us. An unforgettable experience, for sure.

 All my love to you sweetie,

 Dee J

You were due on May 8^th, but like many first-born babies you were not quite ready to enter this world that day. I imagine you were quite snug, safe and secure in your dear mother’s womb. May 8^th came and went, passing uneventfully for the most part. There were no panic-stricken phone calls, only mild frustration. It seemed each day lingered long and tested the patience of even the most experienced of us. Your mom had an appointment Friday morning, May 14^th.  It was then decided it was time to induce your birth, much to everyone’s relief. We were all so anxious to meet you! Your daddy called me at work, not that I was really focused on my work. How could I think like an engineer when you were due at any time! Ben sounded confident, excited and maybe a little nervous. I had been willing that phone to ring and was out the door in five minutes. I rehearsed this moment for weeks; the Peapod (my trusty Honda Element) was packed with every item I might need: sleeping bag; pillow: change of undies; toothbrush and toothpaste and my iPod. I had google-mapped Kaiser Hospital, Redwood City and drove like a nekkid woman with her hair on fire! Needless to say, I arrived before your mom and dad! I watched them walking towards the main entrance, unaware of my presence and my heart melted. It didn’t seem so long ago your daddy was my little boy. Seeing him walking up the ramp with your mom, so attentive to her was touching. Katie looked up and noticed me there. We hugged and laughed, then walked into the hospital admitting area.

                               Katie was given a spacious room, changed into those lovely hospital gowns they insist you wear, and was given IV drips and electrodes strapped to her abdomen to monitor her labor.  Auntie Layne, Uncle Steve, Grandpa Kurt, his wife, Dianne and a parade of family and friends dropped in throughout the day.  By dinner time the young people were getting hungry and restless. Your mother’s labor had progressed, incrementally, but not enough to push you out into this world. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Katie settled in with a determined look about her while all your aunties and uncles fortified themselves with food and drink at the Applebee’s across the street. Layne and Steve and I stayed on, hovering about with ice chips and words of encouragement. Your daddy never left your mother’s side. The night wore on, the younger folks came to bid their farewells and soon just a stubborn few remained. Your Uncle Lucas and Grandpa Damien were evicted from the front lobby by the cleaning crew and headed home. Layne and Steve also went home briefly to gather a few things and to feed Maddie, their lovable yellow Labrador.

I had come prepared for this event, however, and simply walked out to parking lot. I collected my sleeping bag, pillow, and daypack filled with essentials: water bottle; granola bars; a book; paper and pen and my rosary beads. I wasn’t taking any chances. When I returned to the “quiet” room the very loud and large family who had been waiting for their loved one to come out of surgery had finally left for the evening with the good news that “Baba” would recover well in due time. Uncle Steve had not-so-discreetly mentioned their lack of understanding “quiet” vs. “loud” much to their consternation.

Your mom had been laboring for nearly twelve hours at this point with no significant progress. She never once complained though it was obvious she was in great discomfort. Layne and I encouraged your mom and dad to rest if possible. We were concerned, but did not share this concern with your parents. It was close to midnight. Layne and Steve took up residence in the “quiet” room, which was now not so quiet since Steve had entered into the snoring phase and was sawing logs a lumberjack would be proud of. I unfurled my sleeping bag in the small lobby just off the elevators and made myself as comfortable as a plus-sized granny on a small plastic sofa can be. I held my rosary, fingering the beads and praying silently. I prayed for your mom and dad, and for you my darling granddaughter. I had so many thoughts and dreams of you growing up and still marveled at how you had brought such a diverse family together for the joyous occasion of your imminent birth. I drifted off wondering what Lucas and Damien were doing, camped in our family room at home. All of us it seemed were waiting, breathlessly, for you!

A few months earlier I had a vivid dream of you and I snorkeling, brilliant tropical fish darting about, you were sepia-toned, I think from the last ultrasound images we had seen you in. The Beatles tune, Octopus Garden, was the soundtrack of that dream. This time I envisioned a lovely little girl who would become my first-born granddaughter; we were in the meadow at Big Basin and she was smiling up at me, my heart lighter than it had been in many months. But, as always the case in dreams, something else was going on as well. I felt someone standing over me and awoke to find a security guard, about your dad’s age, standing over me with a quizzical look in his eyes. I didn’t look the part of a transient with my REI-style camping gear, but more the suburban mom turned homesteader. I assured the young man I was waiting for “my” baby to be born and he smiled with a knowing look. I’m sure I was not the first over-zealous grandmother-to-be to take the lobby hostage. This granny wasn’t going anywhere! The guard went on his way and I rolled up my sleeping bag. I stood looking out the window, the street below empty at this hour. I prayed a prayer of hope and gratitude. It was about 4:30 am. I washed up and peeked into the “quiet” room. Steve was still slumbering while Layne was reading a paperback novel. I wondered how much of it she would retain with all the excitement and suspense. Sixteen hours had passed and you had not yet made your appearance!

I entered the room and sat quietly, not wanting to disturb Steve or Layne, but she and I had passed the point of casual acquaintances and began “conversating” about the many things women speak of after spending the night in a hospital waiting room: our own childbirth experiences; our hope for your safe arrival; how much we loved your mom and dad. We spoke of  the lost souls in our families, my youngest sister in particular. I learned of struggles this amazing woman bore with not one ounce of self-pity, but only quiet determination to stay the course with her grace and dignity intact. In those few hours I had grown very fond of these two who had taken my son and his wife under their wings. I had always been hesitant to push too hard with your mom, a lovely young woman raised by her father and with her three brothers. I was very aware of the delicate bond we had formed, one that could be disturbed by smothering her with too much maternal love. She reminds me a lot of myself when I was young, a bit cautious after being deeply wounded at an early age.

Steve was beginning to stir on his plastic sofa. The three of us had officially spent our first night together. Looking a bit worse for wear, we spruced up in the restroom and decided to stretch our legs. We walked out into the cool gray morning, typical of the San Francisco Bay Area this time of year. I packed away my camping gear (yes even the waterproof matches) then realized the one thing I had forgotten was coffee!! WTF!!The cafeteria was not yet open, but I wasn’t about to leave in search of an open coffee shop, so tough titties Granny! We returned to the “quiet” room and shortly thereafter your dad walked in looking a bit grim and maybe a little scared. Ben came into tell us both you and your mama were exhausted and that at this point a c-section may be an option. Not one to tell my son what to do, but also very concerned about the “on the fence” mentality of the medical personnel, it seemed the time had come to make a clear decision. But I am an engineer, not a doctor after all, so what do I know? I spoke to Ben about how difficult it is to be assertive, but sometimes you have to be, which is easy to say, but hard for people like your dad and I to do. Ben went back in to speak with the doctor and it was agreed that you would be born this morning and very soon for that matter. Your daddy returned to tell us “it’s a go” and the relief each one of us felt was evident in our expressions.

Ben asked that I come with him and we reentered the room your mom had labored in for the last 20 hours or so. Your mom had been whisked into the delivery room and was being prepped for surgery. Ben was given blue scrubs and booties, along with a cap he would wear, and a facemask. He joked about having a collection of name tags and hair nets, a line from Wayne’s World, one of our favorite movies when he was a boy. As he finished getting dressed, I was struck with the thought that very soon my first-born son would be meeting his first-born daughter. Our eyes met just as the nurse called him into the OR and I tried very hard not to cry in front of him. I watched him walk towards the delivery room. The doors swung open and I could see your mom with a flurry of activity around her. My heart lurched a bit and the earth seemed tipped on its axis as the doors closed. There are no words for the emotions swirling around me and within me as tears filled my eyes yet again. I was really turning into a crybaby! Sheesh!!

Katie had not complained one time; her only concern was for your well being. I prayed another prayer of thanksgiving and praise for this incredible young woman who would soon give our family the greatest of gifts, with no thought of her own comfort or safety. I left the labor and delivery area and walked down the long corridor towards the “quiet” room, now our family gathering place. I say this because after spending the night and early morning with Layne and Steve I felt as if I had been given a brother and sister. I wondered if I could trade Layne for my sisters Laura and Annette, but I digress…

My cell phone rang just then interrupting my addled thoughts; it was Damien calling in to see how things were progressing. He and Lucas were at Game Stop, a video game store, waiting for the doors to open. Skate 3 was making its debut that day. Just an FYI Kimber: eleven year old boys have their priorities. Lucas had been such a good sport the long day before. Damien wanted to do something nice for him since he couldn’t actually visit in labor and delivery, even though he was going to be an uncle!

I rang off and entered the waiting room. Everyone looked up expectantly. We chit-chatted a bit, but I had a hard time staying focused.  I am sure this was the case for everyone present. The minutes ticked by and finally Layne and I could no longer stand the suspense. In unison we stood up and stealthily made our way down that corridor. (Think Elmer Fudd in his hunting clothes, saying “be vewy, vewy qwiet.”) Layne and I were giggling like schoolgirls as we buzzed ourselves into labor and delivery, giddy from lack of sleep. We fully expected your mom and dad would still be in the OR. Instead we heard the loveliest sound, the cry of a newborn baby! We looked at one another in astonishment! “Our” baby girl had arrived! And in that moment my son became a father and Katie a Madonna in my eyes.

 Your mom could barely hold her head up after her 22 hour ordeal; the nurses were tending to her and cleaning you up. They passed you into your daddy’s waiting arms and he held you tenderly, like he had been doing this all his life. When did my little boy become a man? You were bundled up like a little burrito and you let us all know you were not happy with this new arrangement, not one little bit! You cried mightily, filling your lungs with air. My heart began to grow with a love like nothing I had ever felt before. As your father settled you into my arms you looked directly into my eyes, stopped crying and peered up at me with such intensity. You were wise beyond your minutes-old self. You had me entranced the moment I held you, dear granddaughter, and I suspect this will be the case for the rest of our days together.

The months of heartache as a result of your great-grandfather’s hospice and your other great-grandfather’s surgeries and hospitalization, the feeling of living in suspended animation, never knowing when we would lose one or both of them had been usurped in an instant by a nine pound, 2 ounce, 21 inches long baby girl! You were the prettiest baby I had ever laid eyes on! You instantly commandeered the hearts of each one us in that room. All the fear, uncertainty, exhaustion, frustration, anger and pain dissipated like the fog clinging to the coastal mountains when the sun burns through. My weary faith was reenergized. With your exquisite and lingering gaze we stared each other down, eye to eye, age to age. I remember feeling my own grandmother’s presence at that moment; she was there with us then.

You are blessed to have so many who love you my darling girl. How can I ever thank Layne and Steve for all they have done for your mom and dad? Words cannot express my gratitude. I truly believe it does take a village to raise a child. Your mom and dad have the love and support of so many Sampsons and Kings, Palermos, Brackens and Imbodens and the list continues to grow with each person that meets you for the first time. Your mom and dad are amazing young adults, your aunties and uncles are all on the same page, turned the day you were born.

I passed you into your Auntie Layne’s waiting arms and said my good-byes. I had promised my mother-in-law I would sit with your great-grandfather while she ran her errands. As I walked out of the hospital some 22 hours after I had first arrived my heart sang with new hope. So much had changed in less than one day. New life will carry an entire tribe through the darkness into the dawn. I smiled to myself, started up my trusty Peapod and headed home, south down the 101, with the sun shining brightly.

I showered and changed my clothes and drove over to “546,” Granny and Grandpa Palermo’s home. That afternoon with your great-grandfather seemed surreal. The family room turned hospice room was so different from the “quiet room” I had spent the night before in. Hope and despair define those days of not knowing “if” but “when” we would lose him. The brutal indignities and lost independence were softened with steadfast faith in God’s plan.  Your great-grandfather was a “good and sublime” man, one who never once complained, nor questioned his fate. His inevitable decline was softened with the gaze of a newborn baby girl. You were only a few hours old and already comforting your granny.

We are united in our love of faith and family, and hope, too, though perhaps unrealistic when faced with harsh reality. But we are born into this world with little else and hope will see us through. This, I believe. To the end of my days I will remember the moment we made eye contact Kimber Ryan. I will never forget the gentle and loving smile, one born of relief and pride when I told your great-grandfather you had arrived safe and sound, perfect in every way.

He is gone now, nearly two months. You met him the day before he died. I like to think he knew you were there. Your birth brought great joy to all of us. Birth and death are a part of this journey. As we enter into and live in this world we can only hope to cross paths with incredible souls like your aunties and uncles, your mom and dad, grandparents, great-grandparents and dear friends whose hearts were made lighter on Saturday morning, May 15, 2010. As I gaze upon you now I see sleep smiles flitting across your angelic face. You are eleven weeks old today. I finish this letter with peace and gratitude in my heart. It is one more humble attempt at sharing my thoughts with you dear granddaughter.

Love, Granny

p.s. I started this letter during a Giants v. Marlins game, July 29, 2010. The Giants lost, but we had a good time at Tres Agaves afterwards. 

It’s been another week of unbelievable highs and lows. Our lives have been a roller coaster ride of emotion; hope and despair run through our veins. We are adrift as the ebb and flow of life and death carries us a little farther from shore each day. We are blessed as a family. Our lives have been good, too good, perhaps, if that is possible. Although each one of us struggle in different areas, we are secure in our love for one another, so rare these days.

A friend once told me, “Beware the lightning that strikes while we sleep.” This puzzled me then, but I guess I get it now. I left my father last Sunday at the VA sub-acute care facility in Livermore with hope, probably unrealistic, but what choice is there? If I choose the reality of all he has been through, and his chances of any sort of life other than that of an invalid, frail and old, his organs failing him one by one, I don’t think I could stay the course. I get the dreaded area code “925” phone call in the early afternoon, Monday, while I was at work and find myself scrambling once again. Dad was being rushed by ambulance to Valley Care Medical Center in Pleasanton , the closest fully staffed emergency room to the VA, this time with internal bleeding. I’d be lucky to make it there in an hour.

It’s been a Jacob’s ladder of ailments and emergency surgeries. My dad has had five surgeries in seven weeks. Week eight is just around the corner. I can hardly wait to see what happens next. I left work early (again) and drove up to see Dad before his third surgery of the week. I’ve been with him every time, there is no one else. We said our good-byes just before they took him into the OR. I drove back to work, then off to pick Lucas up after school. We were on a mission: to hang out with Grandpa while Granny got a little fresh air and did her grocery shopping.

Lucas and I arrived at Granny and Grandpa’s promptly at 3:15. Granny was waiting at the door, ready to run a few errands. Before she left she asked Grandpa if he would like anything and he said, “I’d like a root-beer float, please, and make it a double!” He seems to enjoy his RBFs lately but I wonder if he is requesting these for himself, or for his grandson. I think I know the answer. Granny gathers her purse and gives us last-minute instructions, and reminds me of the “do not resuscitate” order posted on the fridge. I assure her I understand. I’ve been through the drill with my mom. It never gets any easier, but it’s my job to be the support staff, not the crybaby.

She explains Don’s need for a urinal, another step in the progression of hospice care. I guess I haven’t filled her in on what I’ve gone through with my own father recently. Seeing my dad, a Korean War veteran, in a hospital gown and Depends is my new reality. A urinal is all too familiar to me at this point, seriously. Don is a very modest man and asks that I leave the room (I gladly comply) then gives me the “all clear” when he is finished.

Don, Lucas and I settle in the family room, the world outside spins on, unaware. Don offers the remote to Lucas (even though one of his favorite game shows is on) and Lucas politely declines. He has packed a book, Hoot, one the Volunteer staff at Valley Care offered him when we visited my dad earlier in the week. Soon my son is engrossed in his book. We each sigh our semi-contented sighs, glad for the time together. Don turns off the TV and asks me to pass him a new crossword puzzle, the book he uses as a portable desktop, and a pencil. We have so much in common: we enjoy a good book or a crossword puzzle; we share a love of space and technology; we have both been employed at the same large aerospace company as engineers. We cherish our family, our faith, and we don’t mind the companionable silence of those who know each other well. Soon the only sound is the hum of Don’s oxygen generator (oddly soothing) the bubbling noise of the humidifier, the scratch of pen and pencil on paper. Lucca sits quietly, pensive, and occasionally glances over at me and then at his beloved grandfather with a questioning look in his eyes.

Don rests with his feet elevated; his heart and kidney failure are evident in the swelling of his legs and ankles. I think back to all the happy family gatherings we’ve celebrated at “546” Cecelia Court: the birthdays and Christmas Eves, the garden parties and BBQs, all fleeting memories now. We have gathered with Don and Jo on Wednesday evenings, weekends, and for nearly every holiday, large and small, for the last fifteen years. I wanted my youngest son to know the love of his grandparents, as I had known the love of mine. This particular room is one of Don’s design: the high ceilings are knotty pine; the stone fireplace an anchor; the bookcases are filled with countless books (Don and I collect many of the same titles); the comfy twin leather club chairs and the inviting sofa, that now substitutes as the hospital bed that will be coming soon, are as familiar to me as the pieces in my own home. My father-in-law is a brilliant man: introspective, gentle, generous and forgiving. I cannot imagine life without him. He nods off for a few moments as Lucca reads and I observe, ever vigilant to any change in his breathing patterns. This is such an incredibly bittersweet time in our lives.

While some would think this a depressing way to spend a Friday afternoon (and yes, we realize there will be no happy endings here, no miracle recovery) we hope for many more days such as this, God willing. Lucca has grown up with his grandparents, Don & Jo, and is especially close to his dear grandpa. He doesn’t know my father as well but I am hoping they get a second chance. The impending loss is something we try to prepare Lucca for. He is a very perceptive eleven year-old boy and has been asking very direct questions.  I wonder whether we tell him the truth, the inevitable ending is so hard to bear as an adult, how does one prepare a child? If we dwell too long on this matter our grief becomes debilitating.

Don never fails to ask me how my father is doing. He is aware of my father’s seven week hospitalization. We tried to keep this from him, but after the 5th week it slipped out. Damien and I email each other daily with updates on our fathers’ conditions. The last time Don asked about my dad I gave him the Reader’s Digest version. His remark was, “Dean is a tough old bird.” When I relayed this to my father he smiled a wry smile, taking the comment as it was intended. Our fathers are two warriors with eerily similar health issues and now simultaneously fighting the battle of their lives. They are rooting for each other, sincerely. It’s rare for my father to show such emotion.

I often wish our parents had gotten to know each other better; perhaps our fathers could have been friends. Aside from our wedding day they have seldom had an opportunity to socialize. My mother has been gone nearly ten years now. I am so thankful she isn’t here to see the steady decline of my father, it would kill her. One day, soon perhaps, I will become an orphan. The two people who have been most like parents to me will become one. I’ve never really known where I stand with my mother-in-law but Don has always been clear: he loves me unconditionally and welcomed me and my two older children into his family with open arms. He was the very first visitor to come see Lucca the day he was born. How are we going to go on without him?

Jo arrives with groceries in arm and at first we are unaware of her presence, each of us preoccupied. I’m not sure what she expected to find, but hope her outing was a welcome respite. I joke about stashing the piñata and balloons just as she was parking her car. Don smiles up at her and she kisses him hello, tenderly, and with love in her eyes. Jo thanks me profusely for hanging out with Don. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for this man, one who has treated me like a daughter from day one. I pray Jo knows she can count on me too. I cannot even begin to imagine what her life is like these days.

Lucca and I gather up our belongings and head on home. With sixteen hours on the clock today, I’m exhausted. I’ve called in so many favors lately and with such short notice. My youngest son is passed from friend to friend and he never complains. I feel intensely guilty about this. I seldom spend any quality time with him these days. Another friend invites Lucas to spend the night. Our boy who until this year had never had a sleepover is suddenly deluged with invites. Damien arrives home with a look in his eyes all too familiar. The phone calls begin, friends and family checking in, asking how our dads are, offering love and support.

It’s nearly 9:00 pm (my days begin at 4:45 am) and we decide to watch a movie, Crazy Heart, which we had hoped to see in the theatre but real life got in the way. We open a bottle of wine and begin the movie but within minutes we are both sound asleep. Another week of tragedy and small triumphs has ended. I awaken early the next morning and lie quietly, watching the moon set beneath the redwoods in our backyard. My thoughts drift like the kelp in the sea.

            It is May 1st, my father’s 80th birthday. I wasn’t sure he was going to make it. My husband, now awake and for how long I do not know says, “You never told me how it felt. I never knew you were hurting so much when your mom was sick.” My heart breaks for him all over again. Each day we are faced with knowing his dear father may soon be gone, at least on this earth. We continue to pray for strength and wisdom. Our lives are on hold; our fathers’ lives hang precariously.

My hope is that very soon a baby girl will be born into this world and she will meet both of her great-grandfathers. I imagine them smiling as they hold her close, their ravaged hearts beating in unison with hers. Kimber will be the one who carries us all through our grief, such a tall order for a newborn babe. It’s all in God’s time and in His goodness and mercy we will endure our loss, together, as our fathers pass from this world to the next.

By nature I am a problem-solver, I guess I always will be. I attribute this to my profession, mechanical engineering, but even as a child I loved to tinker with my bike, do jig-saw puzzles, and could perform the occasional home repair by the time I was ten. I coveted my older brother’s tool box. I was fascinated with the wrenches, awls and assorted hardware he would carefully return, each to its designated place after use. When Kim joined the Marines he bequeathed this treasure trove of tools to me, his kid sister. I was in the 8^th grade then and still not sure I liked the idea of becoming a “young lady.” All the other girls had graduated to real bras, I was still wearing the uniform sleeveless undershirt with the pink bow my grandmother sent me along with socks and underpants. I liked to play baseball and climb trees with my boy cousins and while most girls my age had posters of teen pop stars, I had posters of Albert Einstein on my bedroom walls. I took several aptitude tests in high school, scoring off the charts in any engineering related matters, thus my career path was set. I took drafting classes, woodshop and machine tool technology, rare in those days for a girl. I have been an ME for nearly thirty years now. I went into the workforce right out of college. It was then I realized I had entered a male-dominated field, something I should have expected had I paid attention to the number of female students in my classes, or lack thereof.

It took some effort to prove myself in those early years, but in general I have been accepted by most of the men I work with, and in fact many have become very close friends with a few. Together we solve not just engineering problems but also family and life problems. You can’t be cooped up together 9-10 hours a day in a closed area and not get to know one another. We spend more awake time together than we do with our spouses and kids, a sad but inevitable outcome of living in the Silicone Valley, a place where most families require two-incomes to afford a modest tract home. The majority of my friends are men and to tell you the truth I like it that way. If a guy gets mad at you for screwing up he lets you know it straight up and it’s over with. If a woman gets mad at you for whatever reason, real or perceived, watch your back f-o-r-e-v-e-r!

            I enjoy being “one of the guys” so it came as no surprise today when Tommy (perhaps my best guy friend) invited me to go with him to Weird Stuff on our lunch hour. Weird Stuff is a warehouse full of new, used, and discarded electrical and mechanical components, basically a geek’s orgasmic dream come true. Tommy suggested that after perusing the stacks of “stuff” we could nosh on a taco or burrito ala Taco Bell . Going to Taco Bell after Weird Stuff is analogous to having a cigarette after a good meal or great s*x for most of the guys I know, so maybe I should have become suspicious at that point. Tommy knows I brown bag everyday and since my ill-fated stint at McDonald’s back in high school, I abhor fast-food! Still, it was a rainy day and the idea of getting out of my cubical for a bit appealed to me on some level.

We browsed the bins of cables, springs, screws (400 of them!) old monitors, hard drives and software for operating systems from the 1980s. They have just about anything one could hope to find in a warehouse full of junk electronics. Tommy settled for a film camera (between aisle 6 & 7) for three dollars (a real steal!) but I took the air out of his sails when I posed the question: “Do they even sell film anymore?” He gently punched me on the shoulder but I deserved a noogie for sure. I’m such a smartie-pants these days! In his defense Tom actually bought the camera to dismantle and harvest the viable parts. It’s a quirky thing we engineers do. We have to know how things work! After Tommy paid the socially-inept cashier, we hopped back in his car and drove over to Taco Bell, about five minutes from Weird Stuff. I opted for the plain ice-tea, no sugar, and he got his customary 5-layer beef burrito with a cup of water. My brown-bag was waiting for me back in my cube. We found a table near the window with an excellent view of diners scurrying between raindrops in the strip-mall parking lot. I settled in for what I thought would be our usual light-hearted conversation, just a couple of “guys” yakking it up on our lunch hour.

The thing you should know about Tommy is he can be very direct, even tenacious when raising a question-this man demands unambiguous answers! This is something I admire in him professionally, but can be problematic when discussing more personal matters. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had our share of sobering discussions in the past including death; divorce; troubled family members; politics; religion and life in general, but we usually keep things a lot lighter. Our topics range from sports to my kids to his grandkids to hiking trips to kayaking. Oh, and the elation he experiences when sending Irv and me pictures of himself doing lots of fun stuff while we languish in our stuffy grey cubicles with not a window in sight! Irv and I pretend to be jealous but nobody I know deserves early retirement more than Tommy, he’s an esophageal cancer survivor.

It was only when he slid an Atlantic Monthly news article across the table, Letting Go of My Father by Jonathan Rauch that I understood this to be more than the casual lunch I had bargained for. I thanked Tom for the editorial and promised to read it. I was deeply touched that he would think to do this for me, but of course I had to act like it was no big deal and  so I deftly shifted our conversation back to his imaginary “cerebral cyst thingy “ which oddly enough is located on his left hand! (Tom suffers from hypochondria, probably a result of his earlier brush with death) When I pointed out that anything cerebral would involve the brain he pooh-poohed me. I offered to remove it with my Swiss Army knife but the big sissy declined. I would have insisted but my lunch hour was over. Tommy dropped my off at my building (Closed Area 51) and he was off on another adventure.

Almost as soon as I stepped out of Tommy’s CRV the light-hearted moment vanished and in it’s place this thing that hangs over me lately (like one of those specters in the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland) returned with brutal force. I’ve been feeling like if I speak of what my life has been like since my father was hospitalized six weeks ago, I’ll seriously crumble like a wedge of bleu cheese so I write things down instead. I meticulously dodge my concerned colleagues inquires about how my father is doing. I keep thinking as long as I approach my father’s “decline” as I would approach any other problem to be solved, I can handle it. I am an engineer after all. My brain knows this, but my heart is bucking my hard-won system of handling any crisis: as long as I pretend to be fine, I am fine. I crave structure and organization and my life is anything but.

My mom used to say “Stoic” should have been my middle name. Stoic is not the way I feel on the inside these days. I feel like a petulant child. How do I say I want my old life back without seeming selfish? The rear compartment of my Honda Element contains my dad’s walker, my granddaughter’s infant seat and my youngest son’s soccer ball. I hear them rattling around back there as I drive back and forth to the VA. Somehow knowing that there are millions of middle-aged folks like myself trying to cope with the needs of an elderly, ill or dying parent (s) doesn’t bring on the warm fuzzy feelings, and by-the-way where in the heck did that “cup half-full” gal I used to be go off to? I kind of miss her. I miss going to work early in the morning and knowing I can hang out with my eleven year old son in the afternoon, doing homework and going to the park. I miss sitting around the dinner table with my family, sharing our day and a good meal. I never thought I’d say this but I miss the man that used to be my father. Sometimes when I first walk into his hospital room I am stunned (even though I see him every day) to see the carapace of the man he has become. He was surly and manipulative, harsh and critical, but I always knew what to expect. Now my heart leaps when my cell phone rings, never knowing if he has fallen, had another heart attack, or is simply misbehaving. His case-worker has my cell number on speed dial.

I miss being the daughter he never really knew, but grudgingly accepted around the holidays. I don’t like being the woman I am now. I sleep with my Blackberry next to my pillow, go to bed exhausted and wake up resigned to life as his caregiver. This is my duty as his daughter and more than that the very fabric that my faith is woven: doing for others as you would have them do unto you. I cannot turn my back on my 149 pound father who is trapped in his 80 year old body that has seen better days. His heart has suffered every imaginable attack and still, incredibly, it beats. I’ve seen my father dying, dead and resurrected all in one day. My emotions range from extreme gratitude to asking God why He allows a fragile old man to live with such great adversity. Isn’t our reward when we die to live without pain and fear?

The thing I like most about engineering is the tunnel vision it requires; the “real” world is left behind. When a technical problem appears there is no emotion, it’s all black and white, right and wrong, true and false. I am a problem-solver not a miracle worker. I am a 53 year old wife, mother, sister, friend and daughter. I haven’t been to the gym in six weeks. I haven’t been to Mass in at least three. I should be celebrating the imminent birth of my first-born granddaughter and my beautiful daughter’s University graduation. Instead I live in limbo, not knowing if or when I am going to get that call that’s gonna turn my world upside down all over again. My engineering brain cannot make sense of this cacophony of emotions and I don’t know where to turn. My faith is being tested and I wonder how long I can keep up this façade. And then I remember, just breath…to be continued…

It’s been six weeks now and Papa is still in CCU. It’s beginning to feel more like home than home. My dad was holding his own until Thursday. He had another heart attack (ventricular tackycardia) and nearly died. His doctor called me at work and once again I found myself driving to the hospital, not knowing what to expect when I arrived. They were still working on him in the ER, a scene becoming all to familiar to me: a frail old guy, lots of medical folks working furiously to save his life and they did, again. Papa’s heart rate was 165 beats per minute,you could visibly see his heart pumping against his torso. It kills me when he makes eye contact with me, unable to speak, terrified and in such pain. I feel so impotent, so helpless. They had injected amiodarone to slow his heart down and the following morning implanted a cardioverter defibrillator (ICD). I drove back up Friday afternoon, but regretted it almost immediately. Papa was so cranky, but all things considered I guess I would be too. I listen to a lot of Jackson Browne these days, singing (and sometimes crying) down the freeway in my Pea Pod, the Element.

I spent most of Saturday up there but took a much needed break to attend Grandma Irma’s 80^th birthday party. It was wonderful to see all her family there: all her grown children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren and the “babysitting kids” she used to take care of, all grown up. I enjoyed seeing everyone but it is with a heavy heart that I socialize these days. I feel like I am going through the motions and most of the time too numb to feel anything really. Or maybe it was the wine. Uncle Matt was very generous with the vino.

It had been six weeks of stress so we packed up the car first thing Sunday morning and headed over to the coast. We stopped by Bay Books, a shop we have frequented for many years. Kevin, the proprietor came out from behind the stacks and asked about my “big kids” (Ben and Melody) who used to frequent his shop. We’d stop by on the way to Butano or a day on the beach and stock up on reading material. Kevin thought it admirable that I took the kids camping, a single mom on a mission. He used to call me “Bella” I thought like Bella Lugosi. It’s hard to believe they were Lucas’s age when Kevin and I met.  Ben is going to be a daddy in a couple of weeks and Melody will be graduating from SJSU in just a few more! Kevin was glad to see Lucas is a reader too and helped him choose a new series, The Ranger’s Apprentice. He noticed Damien perusing a book all about the SF Giants. I traded Kevin a John Miller bobble head for a generous discount on the price of the book. Travis, Kevin’s son wrapped it discreetly while we continued to browse. It’ll make a nice birthday present for Damien. And speaking of birthdays, when are you going to arrive little missy? This granny is getting anxious!

As we drove south on highway one I could literally feel my own heart lighten. What is it about the ocean that brings me such serenity? For the first time in weeks I began to feel like my old self, I kinda miss that old gal. As we set up “camp” on the beach at Bean Hollow I thought, “finally, after a month of Sundays I am back where I belong.” My Cubbies hat, a good book and a glass of wine and this girl was in business.

There was a little boy, perhaps two or three walking with his mom, grandma and great grandma. He had a red baseball cap on and would occasionally peer at me, inquisitive and cautious. I like to imagine myself walking with you, my granddaughter, who will be lots cuter and smarter too! LOL! It was so good to be there again, no TV or computers required. It was just the three of us this time, Ryan and Nicolas were sleepy heads so we left without them. Lucas enjoyed his book and then he and Damien played volleyball on the beach while I read from Wallace Stegner’s Shooting Star. I’m not sure what I think of it yet, the subject matter is a bit objectionable (an affair between a married man and woman who meet on a trip to Oaxaca) but this last chapter has me entranced so I will check my Polly Purebred persona at the door.

I was there to hold him up as he pitched forward, his vision blurred and his became speech slurred. I was terrified but held onto him and asked for help. I’m always calm during an actual emerency but my knees go out from under me afterwards. Within a couple of minutes there were 5-6 medical persons working on him, hooking electrodes to his body, stripping him down to determine what had taken place. It was then I learned he had a similar episode just the day before. They had tried to contact me but didn’t have the correct phone numbers. After it became clear that he didn’t in fact have another heart attack, the charge nurse took me aside and said, “You realize you are in the for the long haul don’t you?” and then she asked if I was an only child! I looked her in the eye and said, “oh no, there are five of us that I know of. I am the only one that can or will be here for him.” She said some unkind things about my siblings, but that is neither here nor there. She doesn’t know “the all of it” and I didn’t have time to fill in the blanks.

The good news is he will be okay, if they can get his blood count up and if he continues to follow his doctor’s orders. I actually miss the old mule-headed dad I knew up until this last medical event. I found myself wondering if he will regain that side of himself once he feels better. There must be a reason God has brought us this far. Seeing him so utterly dependent for his every need is tough. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable, so afraid. Well, maybe the night my mother died; he cried then apologized for crying: no, not even when your beloved wife of near fifty years takes her last breath.  

These past five weeks have been trying, but also have strengthened my faith in God. He has entrusted me to my father’s care, just as he once entrusted me to raise my children: Benjamin, Melody-Anne and Lucas John. They all turned out okay so maybe my dad and I will be okay too. I don’t have all the answers, nor do I pretend to. Each day I try to do my best to be a good daughter, a good wife and a good mother. A promise is a promise and I intend to keep my promise to live my faith each day, whether it is comfortable or difficult, heart-warming or heart-breaking. I’m in this for the long haul just as the head nurse instructed me to be, God’s mouth-piece no doubt.

I know it must be annoying for those of you who don’t believe in God because now more than ever I am hanging onto His every word. I seriously don’t think I could get through all of this without my faith that there is a reason my father and I have been reunited. It’s not like anything ever happened between us, that I know of anyway, but my greatest fear was that he would die before we could reconcile. I have always been intimidated by Papa but I cannot turn on my back on him. It just wouldn’t be right, not now, not ever. To die alone (which in reality we all must do) doesn’t take away from the fact that it would be comforting to have the hand of an old friend, a spouse, or perhaps a child of yours you never really knew very well holding on and letting go, gently and with love in their heart.

When I was a child April Fool’s Day was a day we’d play pranks on our friends at school, most were harmless, some were hilarious, others not so much. Sometimes I think God must have an incredible sense of humor. He plays with us Sabu. As I left my father‘s hospital room, replaying his latest anti-religious rhetoric in my mind, I had to smile. The God my father claims does not exist is the same God that through His selfless example , the God that forsake His only son for my sins and the sins if my father, is the same God who gives me the strength to turn the other cheek  and visit a bitter, angry and dying old man who claims He doesn’t exist. April Fools!

April 05, 2010

Not all people think I am a complete ass. In fact some people do like me. I have recently been in touch with a dear friend of mine, Mark, whom I have known since 1979. Mark and I did everything together; we even got dumped by our respective spouses at the same time. Mark’s wife left him just before Thanksgiving, 1987. He called me in tears, pouring his heart out to me. I remember feeling helpless; all I could do was listen, my heart breaking with him and for him. Four weeks later my husband left me on Christmas Eve.  It was Mark’s turn to take my call. Both of us were devastated and stunned and swore off romantic relationships for the rest of our lives. We trusted no one but each other and dedicated our lives to raising our children: Michael, Benjamin and Melody-Anne. We guarded our hearts vigilantly and managed to keep this charade up for many years. We’d take our children on joint vacations and camping trips; our kids reminders of the goodness in ourselves and in each other.  Mark and I made sure the other stayed true to our mandate of remaining “emotionally unavailable,” at least we liked to think so. People often assumed we were a couple which made it easy to keep our lives risk-free, uncomplicated, our hearts safely tucked away. Our three children were proof we had something to live for and our focus remained on them. If a member of the opposite sex showed the slightest interest in us, we’d find fault somehow, even the nicest guys and gals didn’t stand a chance with us, we thought. Obviously each of us finally succumbed to the lonely nights and days and years. We both remarried about the same time, after much soul searching, neither of us completely confident we were lovable, at least I wasn’t. Life lessons were learned together, the arduous paths of romance behind us, at least for the most part.  Our long-distance friendship was my salvation, then and now.  I like to think God had a hand in our chance meeting which resulted in a lifelong pairing of two of His sparrows.  Mark is and always will be the man in my life who held me accountable when I behaved badly (like that time I voted for Clinton) and I am a better person for this. He cheered me on when I was down and helped to restore my once shattered faith. His gentle humor and wisdom was a salve to the wounds I carried in my heart, a result of unkind and immoral deeds. I like to think Mark and I will always be here for one another, at least I hope so. And God willing, we’ll someday share that bottle of Merlot on the beach!

Good advice (via email) from my dear friend, Mark:

 Hey Bud -

 It’s amazing how God blesses our families with new life; at the same time opening the door for those we love to step through to eternity…even if they don’t believe.  How ironic.

 Went to mass Saturday night myself.  It took 2 1/2 hours.  A new record & a packed house.

 We’ve gone through so much in our lives, good times, not so good, Together, ours was the best of times; wouldn’t trade ‘em for the world.  I have to believe we’re better persons for knowing each other and learning good Christian values from each other. 

 Dad must harbor some anger deep inside.  Acknowledging fear and God might be internally viewed as a sign of weakness when he’s trying to remain strong.  Perhaps he realizes the end may be approaching.  Pray for him in silence.

 Stay strong, continue praying, and rejoice in God’s love.  Peace be with you my friend.

 Love Mark

Today would have been my parent’s 53^th wedding anniversary if my mom was still living. I will be 53 in three months. You do the Math. This milestone marks another year that has passed. I don’t have a mom anymore and my father tolerates me only because he is critically ill. There is not a doubt in my mind that as soon as he is able, he will drop out of our lives as he has so many times in the past.

This is a day I still question my legitimacy. I guess it all started when I was a child, age 7, in Lawrence, Indiana. My parents fought a lot in those days, late into the evening when they thought my siblings and I had fallen asleep. I’d lie in my bed listening to them: the screaming, cursing and crying, my mom sometimes throwing something across the room in anger and frustration. One night my father clearly said, “If it weren’t for Cindy, I’d have never married you.” He then took my older sister and brother and left our home on Hartman Drive. He moved back in with his mom and dad, my beloved Granny and Grandpa. I wondered if he would ever come home. I lay in my bed that night, silent tears streaming down my face, believing I was the reason my father left my mother, my little sister and me behind. And for a long time after that, I accepted this as truth.

The other night while visiting my father in the hospital (I have been his sole visitor the entire time he has been there), he told me he could easily cut me out of his life once again, as he has with my older siblings. He claims he doesn’t really need me or anyone else. I resisted the urge to ask him who would take care of his personal affairs while he is recuperating. There is absolutely no one else. He is nearly eighty years old, forty pounds lighter than I had last seen him three years ago, tubes and monitors attached to every visible piece of his skin, near death but clinging to life, and still not willing to accept the one child of his who had come to him in his hour of need. He looked me in the eye, fiercely and with contempt, and I could feel my heart-break wide open when he said, “I cannot understand why you are so different!”

 My father taught me well: when I was a child he loathed tears or any form of emotion for that matter, so I “manned up” as they say these days and told my dad I loved him and I would be back the next evening. I held back until I left the ICU and then I cried all the way down the elevator and out the door, tears blurring my vision, exhaustion setting in.

The drive home gives me time to regroup and process all that was said and done, another 16 hour day already behind me. With any luck I’d have an hour or so with my family before bedtime. A favorite song from the 70s came on the radio and with it cherished memories of my grandpa, Arthur Imboden.  I smiled to think how unlike he and his only son (my father) are in nearly every way, very much like my father and I are so unlike one another.

As I turned off the Arastradero the Loma Prieta mountains which run parallel to 280 dissipated like the coastal summer fog that nestles in their crevices.  The music transported me back in time, back to one memorable afternoon in my hometown of Rocky Ripple, Indiana.  

I found comfort in routine as a child, I think because it was so rare. When I was a little girl my mother used to say I reminded her of a little turtle and this became my childhood nickname. Whenever I felt threatened, either real or perceived, I’d “tuck in” and wait patiently until the threat had passed. I’d “hole up” with a favorite book and off I’d go on journeys to distant lands. The Red Pony, Black Beauty, Brighty of the Grand Canyon and My Friend Flicka were among my favorites. The interest in my life at that time was pretty obvious: I was horse crazy and spent every possible moment out at the stables.

Later, around age twelve or so, I discovered folk music, in particular Simon and Garfunkel, much to my grandfather’s dismay. He had raised us listening to classical music: Honegger, Naegeli, Vigerons and Schoeck being some of his favorite Swiss composers. Ever the teacher, in the truest sense of the word, my grandpa believed in nurturing his student’s insatiable desire to learn and explore the world of books and music. He came home one day with something wrapped in brown kraft paper, something that looked like a record album. This in itself was not surprising as he often bought used records at the music store in Broad Ripple. He handed the package to me and asked me to open it. Inside was the album Sounds of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel. Grandpa sat down in his favorite chair near the Victrola and lit his pipe. He wore his uniform gray sweater with the leather elbow patches, puffing contentedly, patiently waiting for the music to begin. We sat together entranced on that summer afternoon, April Comes She Will and Kathy’s Song drifting out the window and across the White River, my grandmother’s lace curtains blowing gently in the breeze.

What I remember to this day is not the fact that my grandfather bought me the record I had so keenly desired, but that he valued me enough to accept my choice in music, and that he took the time to sit down with me and listen intently to music his quiet and introspective granddaughter had discovered, music that spoke to her soul.

Pulling into my San Francisco bay area driveway some forty years later I paused to ponder how different I am from my father, and that he sees this as weakness and unworthiness. My grandfather embraced who I was when I was a child and I believe he is still with me in spirit today.  He accepted me as legitimate person in his life and he was a man of great wisdom.  I hold onto this thought now and when my confidence wavers I will remember that summer afternoon in that small town in Indiana.

The Week in Review:

Sunday, March 21

Annette’s phone call Sunday evening pretty much ruined the end of what had been a beautiful day. She is so angry, so tormented, so riddled with guilt because she can’t be here when our father is critically ill. I try to put myself in her shoes, how hard it must be for her. She rockets from having a somewhat normal conversation to expletives and conspiracy theories laced with venomous anger. I finally had to tell her she could call me anytime but everything is off topic except how dad is doing. I don’t want to talk about Brenda, Suzi or any other member of our family. My immediate family is all I have and I can’t keep getting caught up in her drama.

Monday, March 22

I woke up feeling sick and sad but went in to work anyway. After a couple of hours I just couldn’t be there anymore, time for a mental health day. I wonder if Annette has any idea how her harsh words cut into me, a razor’s edge into my soul. I hope and pray she doesn’t realize the effect her hysterical phone calls have on me. I’d be really sad to think her ability to hurt me is intentional. She has changed over the years in frightening ways. I used to think we had a chance to be sisters in the truest sense of the word. I no longer believe this is possible.

I didn’t do too much today. I tried to read but couldn’t focus. I made some soup and then took a nap. I felt a little better afterwards; maybe I am just fatigued from all that is going on. I picked up Uncle Lucas at school and had a nice chat with my friend Cynthia. We came home and had a quiet afternoon, a nice soup supper, and then back up to the VA. My visit with Papa was fairly uneventful. His weight gain (due to fluid retention) is worrisome but his doctors believe it will subside in time. He isn’t out of the woods yet but each day is a sign his surgery was successful. Praise God, even though Papa doesn’t believe in HIM.

Tuesday, March 23

Dear Kimber,

I woke up today feeling more hopeful and am going to think of you with gratitude for the rest of my life. How can it be that I haven’t even met you in person and yet you are so much a part of my life already? I’m sure this “chronicle” will have to wait until you are older when you may wonder about your wacky family: who they were, what they liked and didn’t like, were they gentle and kind-hearted or mean-spirited?

Your Grandpa Don is perhaps the most gentle and kind-hearted man I have ever met. His has been having a tough time of it but is always trying to put on his “game face” so we don’t worry. Today he has to go to the nephrologist (kidney specialist) and will have to go weekly from now on. Don’s brother, Onofrio,  passed away a couple of weeks ago and today we found out Aunt Julia has colon cancer. What the heck is going on here??

Today’s visit with Papa went okay for the most part until just before I was leaving. His inappropriate behavior at times leaves me wondering if his dementia is progressing. I am not a mental health professional so can only speculate. When I finally arrived home Grandpa Damien and Uncle Lucas were waiting patiently, reminding me of two golden retrievers, never complaining of my odd comings and goings these days. Maybe it’s just me, but the days seem longer now, the nights a time of brief respite.

Wednesday, March  24

I woke up exhausted and stressed out. I think I need a shut-off valve for my brain.

I came to work and my friend, Tommy, had sent me this email:

“Let me know if you want to go on a swamp walk with me Thursday. My calendar is filling up fast because I am so dam popular and such an effective lover.”

Tommy can always make me smile. He retired several years ago and is in his late 60s. We have been friends for many years and would often take “swamp walks” (our building butts up to the bay lands) when he still worked here. Where would I be without my many friends who check in and cheer me up when I need it most? I ran up to Target at lunch today and found a pail and shovel for you. I wonder when your mom and dad will let me take you to the beach. On my way out I ran into my dear friend, Wembi, whom I first met at my old church in Sunnyvale many years ago. He gives the greatest hugs and always has kind words of wisdom, spirit-filled. Thank you Jesus for my friends! Their phone calls, emails and chance meetings help me believe we will get through this, that we are not alone.

I like to imagine myself writing children’s books someday, or perhaps my memoirs (a snore fest) that Granny P. has suggested I write, on a wooden deck overlooking a large grassy lawn (or meadow). From there I will look up occasionally to watch my grandchildren (Miss Kimber being the oldest) playing together, blowing bubbles, building a tree house with your daddy or playing bocce ball with Grandpa Damien.

Thursday, March 25

Last night I stayed home for the first time since Papa was admitted to the hospital. We had planned to have dinner with Granny and Grandpa P. but they were having plumbing problems so cancelled on us. Grandpa has had a couple of “down” days in a row so perhaps he just needed his rest. Regardless I was home so took the opportunity to prepare a simple meal: turkey meatloaf, Annie’s Organic  multi-grain “mac-a-nonies” and summer squash sautéed in olive oil. (We have been trying to eat healthier with both our dads suffering from heart disease). It felt so good to sit at the dinner table with my family, pray together and share our day with one another. I have been missing that. Rather than clean up the kitchen as I usually do, we left the dishes in the sink and watched the movie, The Blind Side. (more about that later)

My goal last night was to spend one uninterrupted evening with my family. We are pushed and pulled in every direction, everyday. We share our lives with so many and most of the time it works for us. But lately I have been asking myself why we do this when it is seldom reciprocated. My younger sister (whom you will probably never meet) wrote a rather scathing letter to one of my older sisters last year. She believes I do for others to make myself look good, that I’m not sincere. And this is something I must consider. I worry a lot about my younger sister; she has said and done things in the last few years that speak of long pent-up anger and resentment towards me. Last Sunday night she wanted to know if she could live with us again and I had to tell her that isn’t possible. I just can’t put my family though anymore pain as a result of her indiscretions. I feel like such a cr*ppy sister sometimes…

Our bedtime ritual recently has been as simple as falling into bed, exhausted and numb. For some reason though, I couldn’t get to sleep right away and then I realized I could hear the sound of rain gently falling on the rooftop. God knows why I did this: I got up out of bed, put a sweatshirt on over my pajamas and quietly (so as not to disturb our sleeping dog, Koda) went outside. I stood in the rain for just a few minutes, the shower felt cleansing and healing to my tattered soul. The smell of the rain is a smell I have loved since childhood and I breathed it in deeply, at peace for the first time in days. Just Breathe!

Grandpa Damien is taking lunch with Grandpa P. this afternoon. I hope they have a good visit! Poor Grandpa P. has had one rough week. It’s 2:00 in the afternoon. I am tired but when I think of you my heart is lighter. I can’t escape the physical fatigue but I can escape the way I think. I need to put my big girl panties on and get over it! Smile and the world is brighter, our hope and faith will see us through.

You’d think after not seeing each other for three years we wouldn’t have much to talk about but Papa has the gift for gab and I have been told I am a good listener. He has lived alone for at least six months that we know of so he has a lot to say, but some of it is a bit rough around the edges. My grandmother was always frank with me when I was younger and I appreciated that and I will do the same with you. It always made me feel like Gran trusted me and knew I could handle the truth.

I arrived Sunday morning to find Papa quite agitated. He was upset with his young nurse for calling the Chaplain to come see him. He had spent most of the night under duress and in the ICU that can go either way. Papa felt she was violating his right not to practice any sort of religion and thought she was a “nutcase” and on top of that was upset with her for not letting him use his cell phone. The signals can wreak havoc with the sensitive electronic equipment. He said, “all you freaks stick together.” Papa recalled how it “pissed” him off when I started taking myself to Sunday school at about age 10, after we moved away from Rocky Ripple. He has always believed religion is a “crutch” something he has told me many times and told me again that day. He also told the “preacher” we could all “piss up a rope” next time we tried sneaking in the Bible thumpers. Guess me and the ”preacher” shoulda had our flack jackets on Sunday morning.

We talk about other things too: his three wives, how my mom was the only one that put up with him, how my older siblings are so much like their mother (I wouldn’t know since she was long gone before I was born). I’m kind of partial to my older sibs though so their mom couldn’t have been all bad. Papa talks about my younger sister’s future (he thinks it’s looking better) my older kids and how he is surprised they turned out as well as they did with me as their mother. Not sure how to take that (he thinks I am a weak person because I don’t fight back). Then it was on to the economy, how it is turning around, the health care reform bill, the lack of work ethic among American youth. I’d have to disagree based on the young people I know. Papa was surprised to learn both Mark and Jayme ( his grandchildren) have children of their own. He has been away far too long. I told him what a good dad Mark is to his two little boys. On and on he goes…I guess he has a lot to think about. As I listen to him I wonder how come I get so anxious, my stomach in knots before I go in to visit him. I never know what to expect from one day to the next. It’s sad that we don’t know each other better and I wonder if he is disappointed that he is stuck with me, the kid he never really knew. Sometimes I feel guilty when I leave, like I should stay longer, but with a full-time job and a family it’s tough. I’ve been getting home after 9:00 pm most every night, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I made a promise to my mom that I would look after him when she died and a promise is a promise. I think he is getting a little better each day and maybe he won’t think I’m such a weirdo (or not) with all this time we have spent together. I will keep trying Kimber, that’s a promise!

While I was visiting Papa your grandpa and uncle and friend (Nicco) went to the grocery and bought some picnic supplies. We were off to our favorite beach, Bean Hollow. The fresh air felt so good; sometimes I feel like I can smell this hospital long after I leave. Later in the day a young girl, about 8 or 10, was walking hand in hand with an older woman. The girl looked up and said, “Come on Grandma, let me show you the tide pools!” and I felt my heart melt and I smiled a huge smile. That made my day and I imagined you saying that to me someday.